


Something to Share

by booksblanketsandtea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley POV, Crowley is a mess, Crowley is oblivious and confused, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Fluff, GOfanexchange, Gardens, I am a terrible writer, I apologise in advance for the shift in time/tense you will no doubt find in this, Idiots in Love, It hits Crowley like a fuckn train, Kinda, Like just wow, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Pining, Romance, Softie Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Weddings, also kinda - Freeform, the idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 12:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksblanketsandtea/pseuds/booksblanketsandtea
Summary: As a rule, generally speaking – Crowley was not hugely fond of weddings. He’s said this in many different ways, to many different people. At length. Repeatedly. Usually while quite drunk.(Will had said once that he ‘doth protest too much’ about his hatred of weddings, and Crowley hadn’t spoken to him for three months. What did the playwright know about weddings, or love, or- or Anything, anyway? Bastard.)Yeah, okay. So maybe Crowley has mixed feelings about the whole wedding thing. So what?





	Something to Share

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mithrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrel/gifts).

> Written for Mithrel as part of the Good Omens fan exchange on Twitter. #gofanexchange 
> 
> Their prompt was:
> 
> Madame Tracy and Shadwell's wedding reception/engagement party, with hijinks by the Them, Aziraphale and Crowley, and/or Newt and Anathema.

As a general rule, Crowley would say he wasn’t a fan of weddings. There was a lot of history of tradition there – history and tradition that it was hard to distance yourself from if you had lived through it – and honestly the modern takes were a bit too cutesy for Crowley’s taste.[1]

So yes, as a rule, generally speaking – Crowley was not _hugely_ fond of weddings. He’s said this in many different ways, to many different people. At length. Repeatedly. Usually while _quite _drunk.[2]

Yeah, okay. So _maybe_ Crowley has mixed feelings about the whole wedding thing. So what? He’s a duplicitous and often confused kinda guy-shaped-being[3]. But all that confusion and maybe pining and look, whatever, even considering _all that… _well, even _he_ can’t help but let his mouth twitch up in a smile when Shadwell and Madam Tracy kiss, joined together in matrimony. He even lets himself give a few claps amidst the cheers ringing through the garden.

Okay, so _maybe_ he has let himself get a bit invested, Crowley admits to himself. So sue him, he wants things to go well for the humans. They’d been there at the (almost) End and they hadn’t faltered, hadn’t thought to run. They’d seen it through. They _deserved_ to be happy, and if that happiness was to be found together then- well, all luck to them.

Besides, Hell wasn’t keeping tabs on him anymore – hadn’t since the averted Armageddon almost a year ago – and the demon was finding that letting that foolishly soft part of his heart more and more free reign wasn’t perhaps as horrific or uncomfortable as he might previously have expected. Though, it _was_ making some unspoken things harder to keep locked away and under wraps.

Beside him, Aziraphale sniffles politely as the newlyweds kiss once more to the cheering woops of the (admittedly rather small, rather strange) crowd. Crowley passes over the handkerchief he had tucked into his jacket pocket for this exact moment, knowing the angel would undoubtably forget his own. A rush of fondness almost overcomes Crowley at the surprised, grateful look the angel sends his way at the offer.

“Oh- thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs as he accepts the presented fold of cotton. “I do so love a happy ending.”

Crowley bites his tongue and very deliberately does not say _anything_. Aziraphale glances at his face curiously and – to the angel’s credit – only takes a few seconds before he catches on and rolls his eyes.

“Oh for- Crowley, _really._”

The demon smirks and mutters under his breath, “Your words, angel, not mine.”

“You really are dreadfully crass sometimes,” Aziraphale huffs, a pink tinge touching his cheeks.

“I take offence at that,” the demon protests, before he adds in a softer tone, “But if it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure the Shadwells will get their happy ending.”

The demon risks glancing over at Aziraphale and the celestial blue-grey eyes that meet Crowley’s hold a small sparkle of mischief.

“Well. I rather thought that they already had.”

Crowley’s jaw drops; he is distantly aware of people standing up around them – the ceremony has finished – before he finds himself grinning widely at his friend.

“_Angel. _That was borderline _scandalous_.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale says mildly, standing up and offering a hand to Crowley. “Come now – I believe the bridal party are to have photos and then it’ll be time for dinner. I always say there’s nothing quite like a good wedding breakfast.” 

* * *

The wedding, as far as weddings go (and as much as Crowley wasn’t usually a fan of the tradition and as much as they _maybe_ make him want things he shouldn’t want, things he just _can’t have_) was actually shaping up to be a decent time. The ceremony had been short, and less religious than Crowley had feared. It had taken place in the back garden of Shadwell and Madam Tracy’s new cottage[4] a ten-minute drive from Tadfield. The grass was soft and green underfoot, and flowers of all kinds bloomed in a kaleidoscope of colours and shapes. The spring air hung soft and gently perfumed as the warm afternoon slowly darkened into an equally warm evening.

  
The ceremony had been nice. Romantic, even, if Crowley was pressed – which he hadn’t been, so he probably wouldn’t admit to thinking it. The simple, honest affection Shadwell and Madame Tracy[5] had for each other was the focal point, and there wasn’t a huge hoo-hah made about it. Crowley can appreciate that. Nothing worse than a wedding that took hours to get to the bloody point.

  
But the two humans make a good couple; they are oddly suited to each other, Crowley thinks. Shadwell’s outlandish attempts at stoicism and Tracy’s down-to-earth mysticism; they balance each other well. They were strange, yes. There was no doubt of that; they’d invited an angel and a demon to their wedding, after all. But ‘strange’ was just the tip of the ice-berg for a number of people at the wedding, honestly, and it only seemed to make things more interesting.

  
Crowley and Aziraphale stand outside along with everyone else, waiting for the dinner to be made ready inside the large white marquee tent that had been set up for shelter. Not that it was needed.

“Nice weather, isn’t it?” Crowley remarks dryly as he watches Adam Young and his friends race around the garden with Dog. The Them weave in and out of the small crowd, more nimble and joyful than even their youth could excuse – and none more so than Adam. The angel turns to look as well, pale grey-blue eyes tracking the young anti-Christ.

“Perfect, in fact.” Aziraphale murmurs.

The two share a significant look and no more is said on the matter.

* * *

Speeches done, dinner completed and dessert well underway, Crowley lets himself sit back in his seat (not overly comfortable, but his serpentine spine makes allowances that the hard-back chair won’t) and sips from his wine glass, looking around the marquee.

  
A half dozen tables with white table cloths are dotted throughout the space, and one longer table has been set before them where the bridal party sits – he can see Madam Tracy directing Shadwell to try something off her plate, and Crowley tries very hard not to think of what (who) it reminds him of. He’s felt a low-grade buzz of something that was definitely _not_ envy growing in him all day[6], but he’s happy enough for the Shadwells to ignore it.

Off to the side of the marquee is a make-shift dance floor, empty for now, and fairy-lights that have been hung in streams from the ceiling. They twinkle in the growing dark and cast an ever-moving golden glow across the tables and floor below. The lights and a few bunches of flowers are the only decorations, and Crowley finds himself again enjoying the simplicity of the whole affair.

  
Aziraphale is sitting beside him but has turned to talk with book girl – _Anathema_, Crowley reminds himself – about something or other. Books, probably. Crowley lets his gaze catch on the way the fairy-lights above them warm the angel’s pale curls, lets his eyes follow the line of Aziraphale’s neck to where it meets his shoulders. With a start, Crowley realises that Anathema has not been paying attention to Aziraphale (who is still talking to her, oblivious) but has instead been watching him watch the angel.

Crowley wonders briefly if his glasses had hidden what he was doing, but the witch sends him a knowing smile before turning back to answer Aziraphale’s question. Crowley is considering scowling when he felt a presence beside him.

  
It’s one of Adam’s friends – he doesn’t remember her name. Something short and modern, no doubt.

“Are you blind?” the young girl asks, and the demon blinks twice behind his thick sunglasses, taken aback.

_Precocious little brat, _Crowley thinks after a second with a degree of fondness. He _likes_ kids – they’re always asking questions. Always revelling in chaos. “What makes you think that?” he asks, and the girl shrugs.

“Wensleydale and Brian think you must be, because you wear those glasses all the time. But Adam says you’re not, and I think that if you were blind, you’d have a dog. _Do_ you have a dog?”

“Uh, no. Can’t say I do.” Crowley answers, bemused.

“So you’re not _actually_ blind, then?” A small boy with spectacles too round for his face joins them, and Adam and another boy with dark hair aren’t far behind. Crowley stares at the kids, feeling a slight twinge of déjà vu – the four young, serious faces staring up at him, much like they had at the Tadfield airbase – before he grins at their blunt curiosity.

“I’m not blind. I can see you nicking my dessert perfectly fine,” he aims this last comment at the dark-haired boy, who is reaching for the whipped cream filled brandy-snap on Crowley’s as-yet-untouched plate. The boy – _Brian_, Crowley thinks – hesitates for a moment, clearly not expecting to be caught out.

Crowley stares the boy down for a moment before he sighs and nods his head. Brian snags the sweet treat, breaking it messily in two and giving the other half to the bespectacled boy, who Crowley reasons must be Wensleydale.[7]

“I told you, Pepper,” Adam says, rolling his eyes at Crowley as if to say _can you believe this lot?_

“Then why _do_ you wear those glasses?” the girl – _Pepper _– asks, and Crowley hesitates for a moment before Adam smiles encouragingly at him.

“Go on, they won’t mind! They want to know.”

Crowley looks around quickly before he slides his glasses down his nose and carefully meets the eyes of each of the children in front of him. Brian’s mouth falls open around his half-chewed brandy snap.

“_Wicked_,” Pepper says fervently, and Crowley slams the glasses back into place, suddenly unhappy with the scrutiny. A soft hand on his arm calms him, and he glances over to see Aziraphale smiling indulgently at the children.

“Yes, Mr Crowley’s eyes are rather ‘cool’, aren’t they?”

The demon can _hear _the air quotes, and the only thing that stops him from groaning aloud is the fact that the kids are all agreeing enthusiastically, which makes him pause.[8]

“But,” Aziraphale continues, “not everyone likes his eyes, which is why he wears his glasses.”

Crowley does his very best to not let the blush threatening his cheeks take over. Instead he takes a fortifying sip of his wine.

“Well _I _like them!” Adam says staunchly, as though that’s the only important takeaway from this conversation, and the other kids all nod furiously in agreement.

Aziraphale’s eyes dart over to check Crowley’s expression (still hidden behind his glasses – sun and wine, both) and the angel’s smile softens a bit.

“To tell you the truth,” the angel says gently, “I rather like them as well.”

Crowley’s stomach does a stupid little flip and he takes a second gulp from his now nearly empty wine-glass. _Enough of that bullshit thanks very much, _he tells his gut sternly, and his stomach settles. Well, mostly.

Aziraphale turns back to the children and Crowley feels like he can _breathe _again. He’s distantly aware that Anathema is smirking openly at him and he makes a note to let the air out of her bike tyres next chance he gets. He’s brought back to the – frankly mortifying – conversation by Pepper huffing, annoyed.

“You shouldn’t _have_ to hide your eyes. That’s stupid,” the young girl says. “People not liking other people because of their eyes is _stupid_.”

Crowley doesn’t really have the patience or time to explain that most people don’t like him because he’s a _demon_, but thankfully he doesn’t even need to try before Adam nods and joins in.

“Yeah, you’re right Pepper,” says the young, apparently still not-exactly-human Anti-Christ. He looks over at Crowley and something fuzzy and uncomfortable passes over Crowley’s eyes, and then is gone in an instant – it feels like when a limb goes to sleep, but centred on his irises, and it leaves Crowley’s eyes watering. He blinks rapidly to clear them.

“You don’t need to worry about that anymore,” Adam continues, smiling angelically. “People won’t notice. Your glasses are cool, but you only need to wear them when you want to, now.”

And with that Adam beckons to his friends and they all scamper off, no doubt to terrorise some other unsuspecting wedding guest.

Crowley is still staring at the spot where Adam was standing. He hasn’t moved his gaze – is almost scared to. He can’t tell if anything has changed. His vision seems the same. His eyes – apart from that brief moment of fuzziness – feel the same as they always have. Aziraphale’s hand once more alights on his arm, grounding him. Very slowly, Crowley turns to look at the angel.

“Did he- what did he do? Are they sssstill?” Crowley’s tongue escapes him but, the demon thinks – slightly panicked – what better way to punctuate this particular question than with a hiss?

  
Aziraphale reaches out and carefully takes hold of Crowley’s chin so that he can turn the demon’s head more fully towards him, the hand slipping up to cup a sharp cheekbone to hold him in place once he’s in position. There is an anxious line between the angel’s eyebrows that disappears as they lock eyes, and the angel relaxes with a sigh.

“No my dear; they haven’t changed. Still serpentine, still yellow. Still _quite_ dashing.” Aziraphale smiles and – with something that is too close to a caress for Crowley to survive acknowledging – lets his hand fall from Crowley’s face. The demon immediately feels bereft and, annoyed at himself, Aziraphale, and maybe even at Adam (bloody kids and their pranks), Crowley stands up abruptly.

  
“Right. I need another drink.”

He leaves Aziraphale sitting with Anathema and makes his way across the room to the makeshift self-serve bar. He _really _needs another drink.

* * *

Crowley barely manages to secure another glass of wine (it’s not great, but it’s inoffensive and it does the trick) before he is suddenly waylaid by the newly wedded couple.

“Mist’ Crowl’y,” the Sergeant nods in greeting as he offers a hand, his vowels dropped everywhere and speech looser than Crowley’s own hips. Crowley shakes the offered hand and nods back.

“Sergeant. Congrats.”

“It was so nice of you to come dearie,” Madam Tracy smiles, tucked up against her new husband. 

“Course,” Crowley says. “Uh- thanks for the invite. Glad I could come; not many weddings outside of churches these days. Or, any days, really. But yeah – happy to be here.” 

He’s struck by a sudden thought – these two humans know what he is, and they know what Adam is. Crowley looks around quickly and turns his back to the room, scooting the Shadwells to stand in front of him.

“Look, bit of a strange question, but I think Adam might have – I don’t know, pulled a prank on me. Or something. Is there anything… _off _about my eyes to you?” And he slips his glasses down his nose, peering at the two humans before him.

The Sergeant looks a moment and shakes his head. “Nay laddie, yer peepers seem t’be fine.”

Madam Tracy squints slightly and looks closer. “There is _something_ – it’s like. I _feel_ like they should be a different colour, but I don’t know why.” She titters, brushing away her own comment. “But of course that’s silly. They’re lovely as they are – such a deep brown!” 

Crowley almost drops his newly acquired wine.

“Ssssorry? Did you say _brown?_”

The two newlyweds share a look before turning back to Crowley, concern written across both their faces.

“Ay, it’s as the li’l woman says; brown.” Shadwell nods at the glass held loosely in Crowley’s hand. “Do ye not think tha’ oughta be yer last drink fer awhile lad?” 

Crowley stares at the two for a few moments more before he downs the rest of his mediocre Sav Blanc in one go and puts the glass back on the table. He needs to find someone else, someone who can check. Has Adam actually changed them? But, _no_, Aziraphale had _said_-

“I- I gotta-”

“Oh dear,” Madam Tracy says. “What’s the matter? Did you want me to get your young Mr Fell for you?”

Crowley swallows, shakes his head. Bloody humans and their assumptions. “He’s not- he’s not _my_ Mr Fell. Not my _anything_.”

Madam Tracy snorts rather indelicately. “Don’t give me that. I shared a noggin with your angel for long enough to know that’s just not true.”

Crowley’s mouth drops and he stares at the Medium, his panic over whatever Adam might have done to his eyes fading for a moment.

“What- what’s that supposed to mean? Exactly?”

Madam Tracy eyes him appraisingly before sighing – she almost seems _disappointed_, which is _not _a feeling Crowley appreciates being levelled his way[9]. “Oh you poor, dear idiots. Almost a year on from it all and you still haven’t talked.” 

“What’s there to talk about?!” Crowley exclaims, a new kind of panic rising in him; how does she _know?_ Has he been that obvious? “We’re an angel! And a demon!” the words seem to echo in Crowley’s head, his voice overlapping with the memory of Aziraphale’s saying the exact same thing. The memory feels like a punch to the gut and when Crowley next speaks, his voice is low, and tired, and just a little bit sad. He shrugs at the humans, expression twisting in a helpless grimace; resigned. “There’s nothing more to say.”

The words taste like ash on his tongue, and Crowley thinks that maybe he _will_ look for another drink, if only to wash it all away.

“Oh, you silly lamb,” Madam Tracy says, fond and pitying. Before he realises what’s happening Crowley is being pulled into a hug by the woman, her floral perfume tickling his nose and her arms tight and comforting around him[10]. It only lasts a moment before she pulls back and frowns at him sternly. “Now you listen to me, Mr Crowley. You need to talk with your Mr Fell – it’ll do you both some good!”

Shadwell nods in what the mortal probably thinks is a comforting manner. It isn’t, particularly, but according to Aziraphale it’s more often the thought that counts than the actual execution of an act. Crowley thinks for a moment that maybe he’ll just grab another drink and run – but he can’t, because Madam Tracy’s hands are still holding onto his elbows, and she looks up at him beseechingly.

“Please dear – _do_ say you’ll talk to him. A love like yours shouldn’t go unsaid.”

Crowley barks an empty laugh, and gently removes himself from the woman’s hold. “He’s more likely to smite me than- than love me.”

The Medium sighs sadly. “Your young man is about as likely to smite you as my Mr Shadwell is to burn me. Haven’t you realised yet, Mr Crowley? There isn’t a person in this room – mortal or otherwise – who doesn’t love something or someone they shouldn’t. And that _includes your angel_.”

Crowley is spared having to think up a response to this by a nervous clinging followed by an ominous clinking sound that comes from the front of the room. Everyone in attendance turns to see Newton Pulsifer, best man, smiling awkwardly back at them – he is holding a fork and a champagne flute that now has a slight crack in it. 

“Uh, right. Oops. Let’s just- w-will everyone please join me in welcoming Mr and Mrs Shadwell to the dancefloor, to share their first dance together as a married couple!”

The Shadwells are quickly cheered towards the makeshift dancefloor, and Crowley takes the opportunity to escape to the garden.

* * *

The hum of the wedding reception – laughter, music and the odd shout from one of the kids – fades slightly as it crosses the expanse of the Shadwell’s property. The golden wash of light from the marquee falls over the lawn, not quite reaching to where Crowley stands at the far eastern edge of the garden. It doesn’t matter; the demon can see perfectly fine. He’d always been able to see well in the dark, and the stars above – more visible here than in London[11] – mean that he can appraise the Shadwell’s garden without any issues.

He has been out there for nearly half an hour, strolling the edge of the lawn and peering into the garden-beds. He’s moved on from the lavender and the rose bushes – both adequate – and is sneering down at a not quite up to standard iris[12] when he hears footsteps. Crowley straightens but keeps staring out – out past the garden and into the darkened fields beyond, the night sky an endless expanse above.

He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t need to – he’s known the sound of those feet for millennia; over concrete and sand, through puddles and up hills. There isn’t a step Aziraphale could take towards him that Crowley wouldn’t recognise.[13]

The angel comes to stand shoulder to shoulder with Crowley, and something in the demon settles, as it always does when the two of them are stood side-by-side.

“Did you sort out Adam’s little gift?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley snorts.

“Not sure it wasn’t more of a prank, but- yeah. Humans don’t see them anymore. They just see, normal, not snake-ish eyes.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I thought that might be what he’d done. I noticed that you’re not wearing your glasses.”

It’s a question, though Aziraphale doesn’t phrase it as such. Crowley pats his pocket, feels the weight of the sunglasses tucked away rather than on the bridge of his nose. Feels somehow both free and disarmed; unrestricted and exposed. “I dunno. Seemed rude, I guess. The kid was trying to help, after all.”

“I thought it was a prank?” the angel asks, raising an eyebrow and Crowley shrugs, smiling weakly.

“No reason it can’t be both. Por qué no los- something. Dada-de-dada.”

Aziraphale snorts lightly, a bemused smile tugging at his lips. “You are ridiculous.” 

Crowley shoots a grin at the angel and pauses when he sees the angel’s smile soften. Aziraphale’s eyes catch his, and the angel and demon are silent for a moment as they stare at each other.

“I must admit,” Aziraphale finally says quietly, like it's a confession. “I am _quite_ glad Adam’s little trick only works on humans.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, forgetting they aren’t covered by his shadowed lenses.

“I’m serious, Crowley,” Aziraphale insists. “I know you have mixed feelings about your eyes. But I do truly think they’re lovely.”

“You think _everything _is lovely, angel.” Crowley says, heart thudding too-quick in his chest. “This book is lovely, this pastry is lovely, this garden we’re in is _lovely_.” It’s a terrible approximation of the angel’s voice, but the tease certainly gets his point across and – miracle of miracles – manages to distract Aziraphale from the subject of Crowley’s _eyes, _God and Satan both, have _mercy_.

  
Aziraphale lets out a huff, slightly miffed. “I don’t think _everything _is lovely. Though- yes, alright this garden _is_ quite picturesque. The Shadwells have certainly found a lov- a _nice_ spot to retire to.” Aziraphale says, and though he cuts himself off, Crowley hears the unspoken phrase, and has to fight off a grin that tries to make a home in the corner of his mouth.

And Aziraphale called _him _ridiculous.

“Yeah, it’s not bad,” Crowley agrees, skilfully ignoring how bloody _endearing_ the angel is[14] and shoving his hands in his pockets. “If you go in for this sorta thing.”

The angel glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “This sort of thing? What- the countryside?”

Crowley shrugs, keeping his eyes steadfastly on the invisible horizon-line. “I guess. Nice little house. Garden. Someone- someone to share it with.”

“Ah,” breathes Aziraphale, understanding. “Peace. Happiness. _Love._”

Crowley closes his eyes against the longing that shoots through him. It sounds like a dream; like some stupid fantasy in one of the ridiculous romance novels Aziraphale secretly hoards. Madam Tracy’s voice rings through his ears – ‘_a love like yours shouldn’t go unsaid_’ – and, distracted as Crowley is, it takes him a few seconds to realise Aziraphale has told him something.

“Sorry, what?” Crowley turns to look at the angel finally, and he watches as the angel takes a deep breath.[15]

“Crowley, I- I’ve been thinking about leaving London.”

Crowley’s ears ring and his stomach drops to his feet. Leave London? Aziraphale wants to _leave- _but the angel is still speaking.

“I know- I know we don’t. Talk. Not about this; it's strange, we can discuss just about anything, but not _this_. I suppose we’re just not built to handle this sort of thing, really, and talking about it does seem ever so awkward. But- well you see, I’ve been thinking about this for some time, and after today... Seeing how peaceful this place is – seeing Shadwell and Madam Tracey. How happy they make each other. How-” and Aziraphale’s voice catches slightly but the angel pushes through, because that’s what he does, what he’s _always _done, Crowley knows. Aziraphale pushes through, right to the end.

“Seeing how they love each other,” Aziraphale continues, and this time the longing is in _his _voice and somehow that hits Crowley deeper and more truly than even his own pathetic, heart-wrenching pining. “I don’t know, Crowley. I just- you might think me silly, but… I _want_ that. I want that for _us_. And so, I suppose- I suppose I had just wondered,” Aziraphale says, his voice too mild, too casual by half, and the angel only ever sounds like this when he’s asking Crowley something really, _really_ important and the thought makes Crowley's head swim, a bit. “I wondered whether it was the sort of thing _you _would go in for?”

Crowley stares at him stupidly, his mind blanking. Aziraphale can’t be asking what Crowley thinks he is asking. He _couldn’t be- _

“Angel… Just- I need you to clarify for me here. When you ask whether it’s the sort of thing that I could go in for… what- what _exactly_ are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about enjoying this peace while it lasts, Crowley. I'm talking about finally letting ourselves be _happy_.” The angel reaches out and takes Crowley’s hands within his own; they’re soft and warm around his, as Crowley has always known they would be.

“I’m talking about finding us a nice little house in the countryside. A cottage, maybe – with a small library, and a decent kitchen, and a leather couch with plaid blankets.” Aziraphale closes his eyes and a wistful look comes over his face; as though he’s seeing it all in his mind, even as he brings the image of the cottage – of _their _cottage – to life in Crowley’s. “I’m talking about a garden. Not _the _garden, but one that’s _ours_; where you can get dirt under your nails and yell at the flowers, where you can grow me vegetables and I’ll learn how to cook them.”

  
Crowley’s face is slack with shock, his breath caught in his throat. Aziraphale opens his eyes and his gaze captures Crowley’s; the both of them are utterly unable to look away from each other. Crowley’s hands are still held between the angel’s, warm and secure. Aziraphale’s voice is soft. It’s hopeful and just a little bit pleading. “I’m talking about sharing my _life_ with you, Crowley. If you would like.”

  
“Angel- I don’t. I don’t understand,” Crowley says, and he doesn’t. He truly, truly doesn’t. “_Why? _Why would you want that?_” _

The 'with me?' at the end of Crowley's sentence is silent, but it sits between them anyway, clear as the night sky above. 

Aziraphale keeps their eyes locked and brings his hands – still holding Crowley’s – up to his mouth. He presses a soft kiss to the back of each of the demon’s knuckles. “Because,” the angel says, desperate and kind and so, so patient. “I _love you_, Crowley.”

Something breaks loose in him then, and without thinking about it, Crowley closes the gap between them – he uses his hands within Aziraphale’s to pull them close together as he takes that last momentous step forward and ducks his head.

And every boundary Crowley never thought he’d be allowed to cross, every swell of love he’d never let himself fully feel, every declaration of love he’d ever envied, every moment he had ever looked at Aziraphale and wished desperately for the angel to be _his_ – it’s all forgotten the instant Aziraphale’s lips touch his.

They press together chastely for a moment – maybe two – before pulling back, faces only a few inches apart. Crowley licks his lips – finds the lingering warmth of Aziraphale there – and loses his breath. It shakes as it leaves his body in a shivering kind of sigh, skittering over Aziraphale’s bottom lip and away into the night. With a hungry, keening sort of sound, Aziraphale tips his searching face up and captures Crowley’s lips between his own again. The demon’s stomach swoops at the sound and sparks skitter up his spine, and when he sucks Aziraphale’s bottom lip between his own the angel’s hands move up to clasp at Crowley’s fine jacket. He pulls the demon in even nearer so they’re as close as can be when they finally break from their kiss, a few minutes later.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley pants, and the angel lifts a hand from where he’s caught Crowley by the jacket and sweeps it up – over his cheek to brush back his hair, still copper and fire even in the washed-out light of the stars. He’s staring at Crowley as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful, and Crowley can’t help but question it. It’s too good. It’s too perfect.

“You love_ me?_” And if his voice breaks a little on the question, well. Never mind that.

“Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale looks a little heartbroken at the question. "Of course I do. I’m sorry, darling, I’m sorry it took me so long to say it. But I’ve loved you for _years_, now. Centuries. Maybe even all of them. Won’t you spend the rest of them with me?”

“_Aziraphale_,” Crowley manages to choke out, and his hand trembles as he raises it to cup the angel’s cheek, the other finding its place on the angel’s soft waist. “Angel this- this sounds like a _proposal_.”

“That’s because it _is_, dear.”

“Oh. Right.” Crowley says, dazed, and then he pulls Aziraphale to him in a desperate embrace, arms wrapping tightly around the angel as he ducks his head to hide in the soft space between Aziraphale’s neck and his shoulder. Crowley closes his eyes and tries to remember that – even though he doesn’t technically _need to _– sometimes he really should just _breathe_.

* * *

The music has moved from upbeat to unhurried and neither Newt or Anathema feel like slow-dancing; their feet are starting to get sore, and they’re both at the fun, giggly drunk stage of the evening, so they sneak out of the wedding reception like little kids with a secret.[16] They’re off to explore, but they don’t get far from the giant tent before Anathema holds out her hand, pulling them both up short.

“Newt, look.” She says quietly, nodding to the far end of the garden. They’re hard to make out, but by the faint light of the stars and the flickering lights within the marquee, the two figures at the end of the garden can _just_ be seen. They’re holding one another close, swaying slightly to the slow melody drifting across the garden from the reception inside.

“Oh. That’s- rather sweet, isn’t it?” Newt says, wrapping an arm around Anathema’s waist and drawing her away, towards the other end of the property to find their own corner of the garden.

“Mhmm. Remind me to tell Madam Tracy. She was worried.”

“I can see why. Imagine taking that long to get it all sorted. To admit you love each other and want to be together.” There’s something in his voice that makes Anathema smother a smile.

“Are you going to ask me to marry you again?”

Newt sighs rather forlornly and presses a slightly tipsy kiss to the top of his girlfriend’s head. “Of course I am – though not tonight. When _are_ you going to say ‘Yes’?”

“I don’t know,” Anathema says, and then grins up at him, thrilled. “Isn’t that exciting?”

And Newt can’t help but smile back, because, actually – it _is_. 

* * *

The angel and the demon are silent at their end of the garden. It’s not _the _garden, and it’s not _their _garden – but it is lovely all the same. The laughter and music, the glow of the lights and the smell of the lavender – it’s all faded slightly. Gone soft, and distant. They sway together, the music from the party not known to either of them but slow and tender enough to allow them this – just this, this gentle movement, swaying gently in each other’s arms.[17]

They’re the centre of each other’s focus. The smell of each other; old books, warm stone, vanilla and spices and ozone. The way they fit together as they hold one another; concave into convex, fitting together – not like a puzzle (too artificial); it’s more like an apple in the hand. Solid, comforting, and _tempting_. The way they give into that temptation, their lips find each other occasionally – the way they fold back into their embrace afterwards, as though there had never been any space between them at all.

After a while – how long he couldn’t quite say – Crowley realises he hasn’t actually answered Aziraphale yet. His head is tucked up in the crook between the angel’s shoulder and his neck (a space seemingly purpose built for Crowley’s chin) and he is sure that he’s not the only one who can feel the way his heart hammers inside his chest, the only rapid thing in this slow, sweet moment. Aziraphale is intelligent, Crowley thinks. His angel doesn’t really _need_ clarification. But. Well. Maybe just in case-

“We’re _not_ having plaid blankets,” Crowley mutters into Aziraphale’s shoulder, and the angel chuckles fondly, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s temple.

“Of course not, darling. Whatever you like,”[18] Aziraphale says, voice hushed. His arms tighten around Crowley and the demon sighs, pressing a whisper of a kiss to his angel’s neck.

“I know you’re not a big fan of weddings,” Aziraphale continues quietly, and Crowley shakes his head against the angel’s shoulder. He’s finding it hard to pull away from this one spot. Everything is just- very much _a lot_ right now, and he can smell Aziraphale here, can feel him, and it’s warm and it feels safe. So, he stays, and the serpent part of his brain squirms happily.

“I don’t mind weddings,” Crowley protests, and Aziraphale hums disbelievingly against his ear.

“Well- I was going to say, even if you’re not a fan of _weddings_, as such, I admit I was rather hoping I could convince you on the merits of _marriage_.”

Crowley makes himself pull back and looks down at Aziraphale. His beautiful, ridiculous, lovely Aziraphale. A smile starts to tug at the corners of his mouth, and this time, he lets it grow.

“Yeah, angel. I think I could be convinced on that.”

And he leans down for another kiss.

* * *

[1] Honestly, Crowley found listening to all that talk of true love was like a kick in the gut; it made longing and envy and other stupid, _pointless_ feelings sit heavy in his stomach.

[2] Will had said once that he ‘doth protest too much’ about his hatred of weddings, and Crowley hadn’t spoken to him for three months_. _What did the playwright know about weddings, or love, or- or _anything_, anyway? _Bastard_.

[3] Well, _currently_ guy shaped.

[4] It had been nice of them not to hold the wedding in a chapel, thought Crowley. Considerate, really. Though, thinking on it, perhaps a chapel wasn’t _quite_ Madam Tracy’s kind of locale, either.

[5] Well – just Tracy these days, though that didn’t seem to sit quite right on the tongue for some reason.

[6] Like I said. Crowley isn’t overly fond of weddings. If you manage to get a few bottles of wine and a couple of glasses of whiskey in him, you might hear him admit that it's because they make him feel like one of those stupid “always the bridesmaid never the bride” characters in rom-coms and he _hates that_. Also, he hates Rom-Coms – the plays are okay but the movies are _stupid_. They’re not funny enough! How could they be funny with all the unrequited love and pining and grand declarations and- well, you see why he’s not exactly a fan.

[7] The poor kid.

[8] Oh- so. Not _that _kind of wicked?

[9] Disappointment underscores too many of his worst – and earliest – memories. It never fails to set his hackles to raising.

[10] It’s a very Motherly kind of hug and – as ever – he can’t decide if he wants to relax into it or shy away.

[11] Crowley even spots a few stars of his own making, which he never can from the city.

[12] And by ‘sneering’ I mean he had rather sinisterly hissed that it was to _Shape the Fuck Up_

[13] Well. Physically, anyway. Emotionally the angel had been tiptoeing closer for almost a year, and Crowley hadn’t even noticed. _Idiot_.

[14] He’s had practice. Years and years of it.

[15] Aziraphale doesn’t need to breath. But sometimes, Crowley knows, the angel needs a moment. Needs something to fortify himself with; a deep breathe is a good a thing as any.

[16] Adam and his friends – ever so slightly hyperactive on cake and sugar and not at _all _tired, truly – share a laugh at their expense. Adults are _weird._

[17] They’re both out of time with the music, but not with each other – and really, that’s what that matters.

[18] They have plaid blankets. They have a cottage, and a garden, and a swanky kitchen and a leather couch with the ugliest, softest blankets Crowley has ever seen. He loves those stupid fucking blankets. He has loved their home and life together since Aziraphale first spoke it to life that night at the Shadwells' wedding, months before they even found the actual property. Crowley loves it all, and he wouldn’t change a bloody thing.


End file.
